


half of me

by mostlyunstablefangirl



Category: Glee
Genre: Broadway Rachel, F/F, publicist quinn, small happy beth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyunstablefangirl/pseuds/mostlyunstablefangirl
Summary: a run-in (quite literally) at the bookstore, two broadway tickets, and a seven-year-old in a plaid catholic-school uniform. what has rachel gotten herself into?future AU where quinn has beth and rachel makes it on broadway.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 19
Kudos: 281





	1. Chapter 1

Rachel is  _ so _ , inexorably screwed after this, both professionally and in that community made up entirely of New York City’s offspring of gay males. Yes, each well-dressed toddler in the tri-state area is bound to chew her out at every coming paleo brunch if she does not have a gift in hand by this afternoon.

She’s been booked lately, and running on a diet of vegan pad thai and flavored mineral water. Her loaded choreography routine has her waking up from tap nightmares. She’s had makeup appointments and interviews with various YouTube personas at least once per day this week. No wonder she couldn’t remember something as significant as the birthday of Paxton, Kurt and Blaine’s most recent spawn.

She sighs at the display of classics--no doubt Paxton will have already inherited the anecdote about the hungry millipede, or that of the boy and his bear friend who make homemade jam.

She looks at her watch. Nine-twelve. Her call time is ten. She decides she must alert the nearest salesperson to her dilemma--preferably a  _ female  _ salesperson with a substantial background in intersectional feminism. Because Blaine can smell subliminal prejudice like a shark can detect blood in water.

In doing so, she doesn’t notice the small, lean figure rounding the aisle.

A solid sphere--a child’s skull, the press would have a field day with that--makes contact with her ribs, blessedly padded by her peacoat. In a surprising show of reflexes, she reaches out with her arms to stop the rebound of said child off of her body. Somehow, she ends up clutching someone’s daughter firmly by the shoulders to keep her from careening into a nearby bookshelf.

“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” Rachel blurts out.

“S’okay,” the child mutters into the houndstooth weave of Rachel’s coat. 

“Say, ‘excuse me,’ too, Beth,” the mother says patiently.

“Sc’youse me.”

Rachel remembers to unhand the kid at her side, who stumbles backward a few steps to crane her neck up at her.

“You’re pretty,” the little girl--Beth--observes.

“You are, too,” Rachel chirps breathlessly, still shocked by the encounter.

But she means it. Beth stands less than four feet tall and wears a plaid private-school polo with a pair of tan corduroys. Her cheeks are full with youth, and color lightly when she receives the compliment. Her dark hair is slightly mussed from the run-in, but otherwise kept neat in a single pigtail pulled back above her ears.

Rachel is even more unprepared to look at Beth’s mother, not just because she made the mistake of nearly bowling over her daughter.

Beth’s mother is blonde, high-cheeked, and dignified. From her perfectly coiffed high ponytail down to her powerful pantsuit, Rachel can tell that she is no one to be messed with.

Her hazel eyes are rimmed with charcoal lashes, no doubt also carefully curated. Her lips are parted in confusion and her blue button-up is undone partially to reveal the soft, ivory column of her throat. This is exactly the kind of woman who would have made Rachel’s life hell in high school. And also would have been her prime distraction.

“I am so, so sorry,” Rachel addresses her this time. “I’m in a rush, and I wasn’t looking--”

The mother gives a tight-lipped smile and gathers Beth closer to her by the shoulder. Not a good sign.

“You’re fine. I did need to give her a lesson in looking both ways.” The response is incredibly gracious regardless.

“Listen, tomorrow afternoon--I have front-row tickets to the musical I’m performing in. I just need your email and they’re yours.”

“That’s not necessary--”

“Please, I want to. It’s the least I can do.”

The blonde blinks, then turns to delve into the bag on her shoulder for a business card. She steps forward to offer it to Rachel, who reads the name off immediately.

Quinn seems startled to hear her name aloud.

Rachel then bends at the hip to meet Beth at eye-level. “Beth, I was needing some help. Do you have a favorite book recently?”

Beth shuffles her feet.

“Tell her the one we read last night, babe,” Quinn prompts.

Beth says in a near-whisper, “Gumbo and Oscar.”

Rachel looks up to Quinn for confirmation.

“It’s a new one about two, um, pigeons who tour New York. It’s darling, actually.”

“That sounds perfect,” Rachel says, migraine receding. “Well, I really must run. I hope I’ll be seeing you two in the audience tomorrow.” She turns back to the children’s section.

Quinn hesitates for a moment, before, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Rachel Berry.”

Kurt is delighted by the gift--he read in the New York Times that the pigeon book had a tasteful amount of LGBTQIA subtext. She does find it impressive that they somehow depicted one pigeon as a gay bear--it’s the smattering of darker feathers around his beak.

Paxton grins up at her, his chin digging into her shirt at about navel-level. She brushes his hair back, shaking off the thought that this is the  _ second  _ kid who’s stuck their nose in her belly today. “You’re starting to look so much like your dad.”

“Which one?” Paxton asks good-humoredly, then runs off before awaiting an answer.

“So how’s your day been?”

“I gave away some free tickets, so I have some audience members to look forward to.”

“Tell me they were hot people.”

“One is  _ very  _ cute. She’s sophisticated, perfect, and about yay-tall.” She pronates her wrist at about four feet in the air.

“You finally found someone shorter than you?”

Rachel thumbs her nose at him. “Little girl I almost ran over at the bookstore.”

“Ah, yes, liability tickets. I’m familiar. You’ve given me those before. Was a parent pissed?”

“No, the mom was surprisingly kind about the whole matter.”

Something in Rachel’s manner must become charged, because Kurt adopts a shit-eating grin. “She’s a MILF, isn’t she?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Rachel!” Blaine breezes by with a platter of champagne flutes. “Pardon me for not saying hello earlier, I’m hosting while my hubby gossips.”

Rachel snickers behind her palm and goes to help arrange the dessert table.

It’s hardly the opening night of  _ Half of Me _ , but the auditorium is absolutely packed. No doubt due to Rachel’s substantial stardom, boosted by last year’s Tony award.

She’s still mostly unrecognizable to the general public, thank God for that.

She taps her heart out and is sweating off her stage makeup by the time the curtains draw, grateful to be uncaked soon. Her youngest counterpart, who plays her onstage daughter Giselle, whispers some praise in her direction. Rachel returns it with warmth.

Her alleyway exit is, of course, impeded by a swath of playgoers. Two stand out in particular.

Rachel swallows her impatience to get to her guests, making niceties and signing programs. She reminds herself that, though this encounter will be something she forgets by morning, a child may remember it for the rest of their life. She forces herself to slow down--it’s like wading through molasses.

Beth wears a dress, a broad pink ribbon cinched around her middle and the sparkly white fabric tenting around her tiny legs.

“Hi, Beth,” Rachel says, stooping again. “How did you enjoy the play?”

“I love it,” Beth gasps, eyes approaching the size of a flying saucer. “It’s like me and Mommy.”

Interesting.  _ Half of Me  _ is about the bond between a single mother and her daughter. Rachel’s gaze darts up to Quinn, if only for a moment.

Piercing eyes meet hers--Quinn is waiting for Rachel to answer her daughter.

Quinn is wearing a pair of slacks again, but the accompanying top is different. It’s a lacey blouse whose vee plunges before criss crossing over itself, hiding but hinting. No power-ponytail today. Blonde locks frame her face, which itself is done more darkly around her eyes. A sort of smoky texture rings her lashes this time. Rachel snaps herself out of it.

“I love that, when we find someone in a show or a play who reminds us of ourselves. That’s why I started doing plays at all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

“You’re a good singer. I’m a singer, too.”

“Really? Do you do talent shows?”

“Even better, I sing every week at Mass. On Wednesday. Right, Mommy?”

“Right,” Quinn echoes in her high, clear tone.

“That’s amazing, I bet you get good practice. Would you like to practice with me sometime?”

Rachel shocks herself at the offer, standing up ramrod straight at the sound of her own voice manifesting the words. She turns to Quinn.

“You two could come over for lunch one day -- I have a piano in my apartment and we could spend a few hours learning Giselle’s big song.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow imperceptibly--obviously calculating what this is to Rachel. A charity case, lingering guilt…? Rachel isn’t so sure herself.

“Yes! Yes! Mommy?” Beth insists.

“Sure,” Quinn says evenly. “Tell Ms. Rachel, ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you,” parrots Beth.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and shakily takes Beth’s program to scrawl her name and number.

“So, Quinn, what do you do?” Rachel says, handing over the playbill to Quinn. Her well-manicured fingers stutter over the cover before taking the book.

“I’m a PR specialist to a few celebrities and influencers in the area.”

Rachel perks. “Anyone I might know?”

The corner of Quinn’s lips lilt up. “Even if I could share, probably not. Up and coming artists and a few YouTube stars.”

“I see.”

“Well,” Quinn draws out, “we’ll let you get back to your fans.”

Rachel just now notices a growing line behind them, and internally groans.

“Okay. Give me a call or a text and we’ll arrange it.”

Quinn casts her a lingering glance--in that makeup, it might as well be a smolder--before murmuring a  _ come on, sweetie  _ and leading Beth along the sidewalk.

Beth shuffles into Rachel’s apartment with an incredulous expression on her face. “You have a shandeloor?”

Rachel laughs lightly, peering up to the ceiling at the  _ chandelier  _ and its twinkling imitation gems. “I do. Do you want to take off your coat?”

Beth shrugs off her thick, blue peacoat--not dissimilar in shape to the one Rachel wore the other day in the bookstore, she notes. Underneath is the same private-school garb that she wore when they met, except it’s a miniature plaid skirt this time in lieu of khaki pants.

Rachel looks at Quinn expectantly to see if she’ll do the same. Quinn smiles apologetically. “I might have a client who is freaking out--is it alright if I step out to take this? You two get started.”

It’s the most personable she’s seen Quinn. She looks...a little more  _ human  _ today. This is not to say that she looked particularly robotic before. But her shoulders sag in relaxation and she openly addresses Rachel without using her daughter as a mediator.

“Of course. See you in a minute.”

Rachel and Beth settle at the piano, Rachel taking the lower end of the keys. She doesn’t even assume that Beth will play at all, but for some reason the little girl’s rightful place seems to be with the high notes. Her high, chiming voice like Quinn’s.

“So, Beth,” Rachel says. “How has your week been?”

“Good. Maritza took me to school this week because Mommy worked a lot. But it’s okay because she lets me put extra syrup on my Eggos.”

“Who’s Maritza?”

“The girl who lives in our apartment with us.”

“Is Maritza little, too?”

“No, she’s like Mommy’s friend.”

Rachel wonders if this is a euphemism. It seems incongruous with the concept of weekly Mass, but lines up with Quinn’s pantsuits. Now she’s more than a little confused.

“Do you remember Giselle’s song from the play?”

“Yes, it was my favorite one.”

“Okay, well it starts with a note called C.”

“I know that one.” Beth points to the score that Rachel laid out for them.

“Oh,” Rachel says with no small amount of surprise. “Let’s get started, then.”

They warm up with a few vocal exercises, then launch into the song. Beth only interjects to ask the pronunciation of certain words like  _ ritual  _ and  _ ablution,  _ but otherwise follows along with ease.

When Quinn quietly edges back into the apartment, Rachel turns around incredulously. “Do you realize your daughter has perfect pitch?”

Quinn smiles serenely. “Start ‘em early, right?”

“I’m amazed.”

“Thank you,” Quinn says, coming to stand behind them. “She works very hard.”

“Some people told me I’d never make it on Broadway because I was too old when I started,” Rachel comments. “You know...she has a fighting chance.”

Quinn wrinkles her nose playfully. “But what would the world do without an astronaut-veterinarian-chef?”

Rachel giggles, watching the young girl toy with the keys. She seems to have a general concept of where the notes are on the piano.

“How old were you when you started, then?” Quinn asks, cocking her head.

“Well, singing--I always did that. I was in my high school’s glee club. I was seventeen when I seriously considered drama and applied to NYADA. They took me without a lot of prior experience, just on the basis that my show choir gave me a stage presence.”

Quinn nods, carding through Beth’s hair.

“What about you?” Rachel chances. “Do you have musical experience?”

“I was actually in glee club as well,” Quinn confesses, “which was actually sort of a big deal in small-town Ohio--”

\--Rachel doesn’t know how to keep her face from conveying that that’s attractive to her.

“But when you have a baby at sixteen, things get...busy.”

“Pardon me for asking, but…” Rachel can’t actually bring herself to finish.

“Still in Ohio. Not really in the picture,” Quinn says with a smile that’s almost sheepish.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Misses Rachel.”

Rachel looks down at a tug at her sleeve.

“Do you want to come to my school on Wednesday and hear me sing?”

It’s Tuesday. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Beth,” Quinn scolds lightly. “Ms. Rachel might have lots to do.”

“As long as it’s in the morning, I’m fine,” Rachel reassures. “It would be a nice thing to do before my call time.”

“If you’re sure,” Quinn warns. “It’s at St. Cecilia’s.”

“I’ll be there.”

Rachel regrets it on Wednesday at ten a.m., feeling utterly exposed in black tights and a simple red dress. She smooths down her visitor badge and takes a seat, rather arbitrarily, nearest the drum set and microphone setup.

It’s not that she hasn’t been to any Christian services before. She remembers attending with her friends once or twice in childhood. But being Jewish, none of the various sacraments made much sense to her.

They’re asked to stand, and everyone processes in, a sea of plaid skirts, khaki pants, and polo tops. Rachel picks one pigtail out from the rest, and the swarm clears as they all take their respective seats, Beth’s on the gymnasium floor. She clasps sheet music in her hands.

And through the gym doors comes none other than Ms. Quinn Fabray in a knee-length floral dress with a square neckline and puffed sleeves. No slacks today--pure, unadulterated femininity.

Rachel’s jaw drops before she reminds herself that she is in a place of worship. She had no idea that Quinn was one of the choir directors--it would make sense with Beth’s musicality.

The liturgy is long-winded and Rachel has to remind herself not to lock her knees on the bleachers. She masks her embarrassment when she has no idea what hand-motion they’re supposed to make to accompany the priest’s declaration of, “A reading from Luke.”

Through it all, Quinn shines through, a figure of patience and tenderness. She motions at certain children to cross their knees, pick up their sheet music, scoot towards her when they’re a little too raucous for the silence of the rituals.

Beth is a genuinely happy kid, Rachel realizes, as she skips forward to receive the Eucharist from a high school volunteer. She accepts the wafer graciously and bounds back to her seat.

One song stands out from the normal  _ Alleluias _ . “I Am the Light of the World” is a particularly bouncy one, not quite a hymn. What even classifies a hymn, Rachel wonders? At that one, Beth smiles, pleasantly swinging her little torso to and fro.

Rachel waits an appropriately long amount of time--when the clergy members have left the gym and the microphone cords are all wound up--before gathering her wits about her and approaching the two.

Quinn breaks into her serene smile at her approach, and it’s then that Rachel realizes she is in for a world of hurt if she continues to entertain ideas about this flawless pair.

“Did you like Mass?” Beth pipes up.

Quinn levels Rachel with a strange look. Rachel, unable to decipher it, settles on its meaning as,  _ Don’t break my daughter’s heart. _

“I did, sweet girl. You and your choir sounded a-maz-ing.”

Beth beams broadly at her, clutching her little blue cardigan to her sides.

“I had no idea you were their director,” Rachel adds to Quinn. “You’re a very good teacher.”

“Oh--I have help, I’m not here every week,” Quinn says with a mighty blush. She bites her lip and shifts slightly in her nude pumps. Is Quinn--is she more uncertain in her feminine clothing, or is that just Rachel’s perception?

They walk Beth back to her second-grade classroom--“with Ms. Beiste,” she proclaims proudly--and then awkwardly continue on together, down the steps of the grade school.

“How’s work going?” Rachel asks, to make conversation.

“It’s going okay,” Quinn says, somewhat reticent. “There’s this very young lesbian couple I manage…”

Rachel’s interest is piqued.

“...and I keep telling them, they can’t have boudoir shots plastered all over their Instagram. Their following is made up of thirteen-year-old girls. I swear to God, they don’t need to be sexualized even more than they already are.”

“Young love,” Rachel giggles. “It’s easy to get caught up.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Quinn remarks good-naturedly, and lowers her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose conveniently.

Rachel is too nervous to ask what she means.

“Do you need PR help?” Quinn asks suddenly.

Rachel’s mouth goes dry. “Ah, actually, I get it from a friend.”

“Oh, lovely.”

Rachel doesn’t know why she keeps talking. “Besides, with you, there might be a conflict of interest.”

Quinn pauses, a smile overcoming her mouth. “Because my daughter loves you.”

Rachel’s inner dialogue screams at her to accept the gifted explanation. Her body does not heed the warning. “Not the conflict I was thinking of, actually.”

“Oh.” Quinn seems to consider that for a moment. It dawns on her. “Oh?”

Rachel nearly trips over a crack in the sidewalk. “I, uh--don’t mean to be inappropriate.”

“No, you’re--”

Abruptly, Quinn’s phone begins to ring, and Rachel feels a pang at the relieved expression on Quinn’s face.

“I have to get this--”

“--that’s, yeah.”

“I’ll--?”

“Bye,” Rachel offers.

She pauses by the subway terminal to manage her heart rate, as Quinn disappears in the opposite direction. 

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game called, guess if the author is a top or bottom just by reading this fic.

Blaine asks faintly in the background what is going on with Rachel.

“She struck out with the MILF,” Kurt yells back, blaring through Rachel’s speaker.

“Ow, Kurt.”

“Sorry.”

“But really, do you think she’s secretly a homophobe?” Rachel plucks lint from her leggings anxiously.

“I don’t think so--you said she worked with lesbians.”

“Yeah, but work is very different from… I don’t know. She’s a practicing Catholic.”

“Okay, that means nothing. Our friend Clive is a practicing Catholic.”

“You’re right,” Rachel sighs. “And she does promote healthy queer representation. It would almost be better if she was homophobic, because then I could hate her and forget about her.”

“But she’s just so  _ noble _ ,” Kurt sighs in faux despair. “What  _ ever  _ will you  _ do _ , Rachel?”

“Stop making light of my dilemma,” Rachel wheedles.

“Let’s go out to dinner tomorrow,” Blaine suggests, face taking up the rectangle of space on the screen now.

“Where?”

“Izzat,” Blaine whispers conspiratorially.

“We’re splurging?” Kurt asks gleefully.

“It’s time,” Blaine says solemnly. “Anything for dear Rachel.”

When they enter the upscale Persian restaurant, everything is washed in hues of red. Upbeat, poppy, and ambiguously Middle Eastern music comes through the speakers. Rachel really hopes the owners are from Iran, otherwise this is appropriation at its finest.

“Do you love it?” Blaine gushes.

It’s Kurt’s first time, and he is absolutely enamored by the tapestries, the blacked-out windows, the mood lighting.

Rachel unfurls the napkin on her place setting, which was folded into a lounging camel.

A glimpse of blonde hair breaks her from her atmosphere-induced glee.

“No,” she groans, shielding her forehead with a palm.

“What, migraine?” Kurt asks.

“No, MILF,” Rachel sighs uselessly.

“Here?” Kurt hisses. “Of all places?”

Despite her best attempts to stay centered on her plate, Rachel keeps casting glances over to the table, where Quinn converses with an older, statuesque blonde.

It’s another collared shirt day. Quinn is talking animatedly with her hands, and at one point in her tirade happens to look over in Rachel’s direction.

Rachel wants to duck under the table, but it’s too late.

Quinn’s eyes go wide with recognition. Her companion sees the expression, and turns to follow her gaze.

Rachel, burning, focuses intently on her chickpea salad.

Upon next glance, the companion has swiveled in her seat to wave Rachel over.

“Oh, God, they’re calling me.”

“Go!” Blaine says sharply, swatting at her.

She tugs her dress down, because hell, it’s. Shorter than her conventional style. And wanders over, Quinn blinking at her with resignation.

“Charlotte Veroche,” the woman introduces herself, in what is almost a transatlantic accent. Rachel is taken aback. “Come, share a bottle of white with us.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Rachel says hastily. “My friends…”

“...don’t seem to mind,” Charlotte finishes for her.

Rachel follows her eyes to where Kurt and Blaine are gesticulating wildly at her like a pair of chimpanzees. Rachel looks to Quinn, whose face is unreadable.

Unable to extricate herself, Rachel sits gingerly.

“So, how did you two meet?” Charlotte asks, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Rachel looks to Quinn to lead the discussion, lest Quinn be further irked. 

“Ah, Rachel and Beth met in a bookstore. Rachel was in a hurry and needed a children’s book recommendation. Rachel invited us to see her Broadway show, and…” Quinn makes a sweeping motion with her hand. “Beth has been taken by her ever since.”

“I’m equally enamored with Beth,” Rachel says truthfully.

Charlotte simply smiles amusedly at the sentiment. “Beautiful child, she is. I understand you won a Tony last year, Rachel?”

“I did.”

“Lead actress in  _ On the Wing _ . Excellent.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I hear you played a bisexual role.”

“I did, one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.”

“All of us bisexuals salute you, Rachel,” Charlotte drawls.

At that, Rachel feels a stone in the pit of her stomach. Could this striking, charismatic woman be Quinn’s older, illicit lover? She knows love has no age, but something about Charlotte is dramatic and forbidden. Rachel tries not to come up with scenarios where they’ve secretly swept each other away.

“Am I interrupting a--?” Rachel asks, but can’t bear to finish the sentence.

“Is she, Quinn?” Charlotte asks with a smirk. As if finding out for herself.

“No, Charlotte,” Quinn says with genuine warmth in her voice, humoring the older woman.

“Quinn is my publicist, and a damn good one at that,” Charlotte remarks. “I’m a modern artist.”

Rachel feels relief wash through her muscles and they become progressively less taut. “That’s...lovely.”

“Have you ever done encaustic, Rachel?”

“No--I do love a good Esther Geller, though.”

Charlotte reclines and lets her head loll over to address Quinn. “Do you hear this? A woman after my own heart.”

Quinn forms her lips into what Rachel assumes is a tolerant smile. There is a great deal of affection between the pair. Maybe even attraction, on Charlotte’s end--but in the world as a whole, there must be no dearth of attraction to Quinn.

But the older woman also seems unperturbed by Rachel’s presence. Charlotte observes her for a moment, a knowing look spread across her sharp features. “Well,” she says, standing abruptly, “I may get home to make sweet, sweet love to a new canvas.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Rachel says numbly, unsure what just transpired.

“You as well, Rachel. You two have fun.”

Charlotte slinks away in a floor-length gown.

Rachel casts a baffled expression at Quinn, uncomprehending. Quinn throws her head back in a brief gust of laughter.

“Are you mad at me?” Rachel asks after a moment of silence, ducking her head.

“I’m livid,” Quinn deadpans. Then her face retreats to neutral--amused, even. “No, Rachel, do I seem mad at you?”

Rachel isn’t one for concealing the elephant in the room, but she briefly considers whether she should keep this one covered. She deliberates for a moment, but decides to come out with it.

“I interrupted an important business meeting, and I made a very forward comment the other day with feelings that you...obviously didn’t return.”

Quinn waves her hand. “We go out for dinner like this frequently. She hires me more as a friend and confidant than a publicist. She actually conducts herself quite well on her own. And, as for the other part…”

Rachel clutches her own knees until her knuckles turn white.

Quinn gives her this look like Rachel’s absolutely absurd. “I’m quite attracted to you, Rachel. I thought for sure that you could tell.”

Rachel gapes. “I...couldn’t, actually.”

“My daughter thinks you hung the stars,” Quinn says simply. “Anyone would be at least a little smitten with you for that.”

Rachel feels a tug at the word  _ smitten _ . “I guess you were just quiet in response to me.”

Quinn puts her wine glass down, signaling a serious change of pace in the conversation.

“I’ve never actually...formally dated a woman,” Quinn admits. “Nor brought one home to Beth. I’ve known about my sexuality for a very long time, since her conception, even. I just never had the right space or person to act upon it in a serious capacity.”

“Oh.”

Quinn looks up in an earnest smolder now. “That is, until recently.”

“Oh.”

“Which, frankly, scares the hell out of me.” Quinn shrugs and swirls her wine, fingers delicately clasped around the stem of the glass. Rachel follows their movement.

Rachel suppresses another  _ Oh.  _

“Would you like to provide any input, Rachel?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Rachel stutters, “that wouldn’t be...applying a great deal of pressure. Because you know where I stand on the matter.”

“Do I?”

“This is entirely new to me, and I never dreamed that I would have a child in my life at my current age, but I’m taken by her. And by you.”

Quinn looks like she’s pressing her lips together to tamp down a smile, but it escapes from her cheeks anyway.

“What?” Rachel says, with her own infectious grin. “What did I say?”

“Everything right, Rachel.”

Quinn drives Rachel home in a sleek sedan, modest yet elegant. Rachel’s heart is clutched in her throat, she’s thumbing the fabric on the seat by her thigh, anything to distract from how impossibly  _ close  _ they are.

It turns out Quinn only had one glass of wine. She’s unreadable again, setting her jaw in focus as her left hand grips the steering wheel. God, it’s hot. Do all lesbians drive with one hand?

“No,” Quinn chuckles, and with horror Rachel realizes she asked it aloud. “Just the good ones.”

Rachel has a sense of vertigo in the elevator up to her apartment, not quite sure what to do with the fact that she is currently taking Quinn home. Not that she’s going to do anything untoward about it. She’s not even sure what Quinn intended by saying yes to her offer. It’s just...surreal.

A sequence of events: Quinn puts her bag down on the sofa. Rachel lingers unhelpfully nearby, busying her hands by fluffing a throw pillow. Quinn straightens, turning to her. Rachel clears her throat. Quinn takes one step toward her, and suddenly Rachel’s face is ensconced in Quinn’s two hands. 

Rachel’s body melts, to put it aptly. Her torso floats towards Quinn until they collide in the middle, midsections making contact but heads still separated by a solid three inches of air. Rachel doesn’t know how her arm folded around Quinn’s waist to clasp Quinn’s body to hers. The edges of her that meet the edges of Quinn are buzzing with anticipation. Rachel hasn’t felt like this since her freshman year of college, with an edible in her system.

Quinn’s pupils widen, flit down to Rachel’s mouth. Rachel’s breath comes quickly. She’s not even concerned that Quinn can hear it--in fact, let her.

Their noses brush. Quinn’s bottom lip brushes the underside of Rachel’s.

A sudden, sharp tone makes them both jump. It doesn’t just sound once--it drones on in the silence.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn murmurs, moving back towards her purse and rummaging through it.

Rachel makes a strangled noise that’s supposed to sound like  _ it’s okay _ .

“Oh, my God,” Quinn says into her phone. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

Rachel’s heart lurches.

Outright terror lines Quinn’s face. “She had a seizure, they’re at the hospital.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Ms. Fabray, I understand Beth had a slight cold this morning. Well, it progressed through the day, and as she developed a fever, she had a febrile seizure. Are you familiar?”

Quinn nods vigorously, eyes welling over.

“Very uncommon in children her age. We’ve evaluated her, and she seems perfectly fine. Just wanted to give her mom a scare.” He chuckles, more out of reassurance than anything else.

Quinn responds to it with her own laugh, more out of relief than humor.

“One more thing--she is at a slightly higher risk of epilepsy, given that she had a febrile seizure at this age. But we’re not too concerned. This is her first time, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, we’re not worried. We’ll give her some fluids and get her home in just a bit, all right?”

“Sounds good, doctor.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Quinn kneels down beside the cot, eye-level with little Beth. Who looks. Genuinely miserable for the first time.

“Are you cold, baby?”

Beth shakes her head vigorously. “They made this blanket warm.”

“That was nice of them.”

“Yeah.” She wipes her nose with her wrist, and she peers up through her lashes shyly. “Misses Rachel,” she says, with a glimmer of enthusiasm.

“Hi, sweet girl,” Rachel greets her. “You weren’t feeling good all day, huh?”

“No, but Maritza was home and colored with me.”

Rachel casts a surreptitious glance over to the pretty twenty-something who rushed Beth to the hospital. 

Maritza is biting her lip with concern. She’s dressed in her pajamas, silk bottoms and a tank top with a simple black zip-up thrown over the top. Quinn explained in the car that her roommate was watching Beth when she had the seizure.

“That sounds like the perfect sick day activity.”

“Rachel,” Beth wheedles. “Do you want to come home and color with me?”

Oh, no. That voice. Those eyes. “Don’t you want to go home and sleep, Beth?”

“I took a nap while we waited for Mommy to get here.”

“Honey, it’s a mess at home and Rachel might want to go to bed at her place.”

Beth looks on the verge of tears.

“Okay, but we have to stop for hot chocolate on the way,” Rachel hears herself say.

More than one head jerks towards her in surprise. Beth gives a watery smile and a whoop of triumph.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Quinn says lowly, watching soy milk froth in the pan.

Rachel hands her a carton of cocoa mix. “If you didn’t want me to say yes all the time, you shouldn’t have had such a cute kid.”

Quinn giggles--actually giggles. “You’re sweet, you know.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said ‘you know’ in the past minute. What else should I know?”

“That I like you,” Quinn says in a hushed tone.

Rachel feels her hairs stand on end. She swallows.

“You’re not saying anything.”

Quinn’s observation startles her back into action. Rachel clears her throat. “You just surprise me every time you tell me.”

“Should I stop telling you?”

“No.”

“I like you,” Quinn whispers again, and it dissolves into a grin. To avoid self-consciousness at her own cheesy nature, she turns away to spoon cocoa powder.

Rachel makes a decision, thinks better of it, then re-makes the decision. She sweeps in to plant a kiss on Quinn’s cheek.

Quinn’s resulting smile, received mostly by the mugs in front of her, is  _ blinding. _

“Can I have one, too?”

Beth stands on the threshold, trailing the biggest, softest stuffed bunny behind her.

“Sure, babe, we’re almost done making them,” Quinn responds.

“No,” Beth says shyly. After a long pause, she elaborates. “A kiss.”

Rachel and Quinn exchange embarrassed looks.

“Yes, you may,” Rachel says after a short while, scooping the seven-year-old up into her arms and peppering her faces with kisses.

Beth shrieks in delight.

“You’re gonna get Rachel sick,” Quinn half-teases, wrinkling her nose at Beth.

“I have an immune system of steel,” Rachel boasts. “Don’t you worry.”

(She regrets saying so two days later.)

Beth is thoroughly worn-out at ten-thirty, and they coax her into bed with a book read by Rachel.

“Thank you,” Quinn murmurs while they peer in, Beth’s form rising in steady, if not a little shaky, breaths.

“It’s my pleasure.”

Quinn eases the door shut and pads back--socked--into the living room. She tucks her knees underneath her on the couch. “So.”

Rachel shifts uncomfortably, feeling a sense of urgency to duck out before she’s kicked out. “I should--?”

“You can stay for a bit,” Quinn says quietly, “if you want.”

“Oh.”

“Not like--you know what I mean.”

“Okay.”

Quinn holds her arms out.

Rachel had quickly shucked her dress off for a more appropriate combination of sweats and a T-shirt before they went to pick up Beth. She’s glad for it now, because she sinks into Quinn with a grateful little sigh.

Quinn’s apartment is like her car--modest, elegant. The couch is one of those half-leather, half-fabric models and the coffee table is wrought-iron with a glass overlay. It’s simply...utilitarian. Like everything in their apartment is meant to be used and loved, not for show.

The drawings still lie on the carpet, abandoned. If Rachel weren’t cuddled by a blonde right now, she would go to tidy them up.

“Hey, shouldn’t I be holding  _ you _ ?” Rachel notes.

“Why?”

“You’re the one who had a massive scare tonight.”

“You’re the one who made my daughter happy.”

Blissful silence.

“You want to watch something?” Quinn asks.

“Sure,” Rachel says.

Quinn flicks mindlessly through stand-ups until she comes across a female one, and hits play.

They’re both shallowly aware of the jokes being told. Rachel even gets a little engrossed for a moment.

“I’m worried that I’ll turn out not to be your type,” Quinn admits suddenly.

Rachel sits up. “Quinn.”

“What?”

“I used to think I didn’t really have a type. Now, looking at you...you’re so my type that it hurts.”

“What does that mean?” Quinn laughs.

“I mean, look at you. You’re an involved, concerned mother. You’re good at your job. You wear these,” Rachel gestures wildly, “perfectly fitted shirts, and by looking at them, I would guess that you’re a great deal more dominant than I am. Which is  _ lovely  _ for me…”

Quinn is looking up at her with enormous hazel eyes, glimmering with tenderness.

“...and you were a show choir kid. What’s not to love?” Rachel finishes breathlessly.

“I’m sorry we got interrupted earlier,” Quinn confesses. “You know, even if it was for good reason.”

“I might’ve gotten carried away if we hadn’t.”

Quinn pinks. "I could agree with that."

Rachel smiles privately, a little victorious at this admission. She bumps her own socked toes into Quinn's.

"Hey," Quinn hedges, "how do you feel about roller skating?"

Oh, no.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me, even though I'm writing useless fluff at this point! Oh, and those of you who guessed--you got me.

Quinn wears a dress today and looks a little more composed, despite teetering on two sets of wheels. Rachel gulps down her look of awe as the grey number hugs her chest and arms but billows around Quinn’s thighs.

Quinn nearly bounds up to her, except her legs are stationary. The skates are carrying her over the edge of the rink and onto the smooth, carpeted lobby.

“Did you rent your skates yet?” Quinn asks breathlessly. She embraces Rachel without an ounce of shame, while skidding to a stop.

“Not yet,” Rachel says, pressing her mouth to the cool plane of Quinn’s cheek. “I wanted to say hi before I started falling all over the place.”

“You’ll be fine,” Quinn snorts. She casts a look behind her, beckoning with her hand.

Beth totters over the rather abrupt ledge from the flat expanse of the rink to the locker area.

“She’s a rockstar out there,” Quinn explains. “It’s just the getting in and out that’s hard.”

Beth’s expression transitions from extreme focus--her tongue peeks out from the corner of her mouth as she dismounts--to utter joy. “Rachel!”

“Hi, bunny,” Rachel says, stoops, and straightens with the girl in her arms. The skates add a few extra pounds that Rachel wasn’t expecting. “Happy half-birthday.”

Quinn explained that Beth was so distraught over her friend Malik moving at the end of the school year that she’d insisted upon having her eighth birthday party early.

Beth code-switches into Shy Beth Speak. She toys with the necklace around Rachel’s neck in lieu of giving a response. Rachel doesn’t quite understand what prompts Beth to enter her chameleon mode.

“Are you being shy?” Rachel teases. “You weren’t shy when you were stealing my vegan marshmallows last weekend.”

Beth gives a throaty sort of giggle that sounds like  _ ke-ke-ke _ .

“Go back to your friends,” Rachel says, “I’ll put on some skates and join you soon.”

Beth nods vigorously and trundles back into the rink, Quinn giving her a little boost from behind.

“Are you fully recovered?” Quinn asks. She means from Rachel’s cold.

Rachel grimaces. “Yes. I missed you, but I wasn’t about to let you see me all snotty and gross.”

“You could never be gross,” Quinn vows.

Rachel shakes her head delightedly.

To her surprise, Quinn follows her to the rental counter and waits as she laces her skates. Then leads her into the rink, easing her over the ledge.

Everyone moves in concentric circles. Rachel, admittedly, has to stay to the outer one because she’s painfully slow.

“You can catch up with the kids if you want,” Rachel reminds her, gritting her teeth in concentration.

“No, they’re fine. They’re having the time of their lives.”

“You won’t, if you stick with me,” Rachel huffs, grabbing the wall for balance once again.

“What are you talking about? I’m having a blast.” Quinn proffers her hand.

“I’ll take you down with me if you do that.”

“Then I’m prepared to go down.” Quinn waggles her eyebrows suggestively as Rachel accepts the digits and interlaces them with her own.

“Quinn!” Rachel gasps. “We are in a family establishment.”

“What are you implying?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Quinn decides to show off by turning around and skating backwards as she clasps both of Rachel’s arms in hers. This results in them going a lot faster than Rachel had anticipated.

“I’ve got you,” Quinn reassures, at the sight of her brief franticism.

Rachel believes her.

Quinn excuses herself to the restroom, leaving Rachel and Beth to share a bag of cotton candy at one of the booths in the parlor.

“Rachel?”

“Mmm?”

“What does it mean when two girls hold hands?”

Rachel freezes, realizing it’s highly inappropriate if she answers incorrectly. “Well,” Rachel draws out, “it could mean that they’re friends. Or it could mean that they want to be girlfriend and girlfriend. Has your mommy talked to you about girls having girlfriends?”

Beth hesitates. “No.”

Rachel finds this fact disappointing. Is Quinn closeted from her daughter? Not that Rachel has any room to judge, because she’s not the single mother. A single mother who has succeeded against all odds, in a big city, and put her daughter through private school.

Beth goes on. “She told me about ladies having wives.”

Rachel releases tension she didn’t know she was holding. Oh. So, maybe not. “Okay, well, girls can hold hands and date if they want. Like boyfriends and girlfriends, only two girls.”

Beth follows a scratch in the linoleum of the table with her nail.

“Did you,” Rachel beats around the bush, “did you ask because you saw me and Mommy hold hands?”

Beth gives her a quizzical look and shakes her head once. “No, I was holding Yasmin’s hand when we were skating. I think Rose and Hannah got mad at me for doing it.”

Rachel imagines a dunce cap on her head. Maybe some stage makeup to signify that she’s the biggest clown. “ _ Oh _ . At your age, holding hands usually means you’re  _ best  _ friends. Rose and Hannah might be jealous. Maybe you can give them a turn holding your hand afterward.”

“Okay. Are you and Mommy girlfriends, if you’re big and holding hands?”

Rachel chances it. “I don’t know yet. Would that be okay with you, if we were?”

Beth is completely bewildered.

It suddenly occurs to Rachel that Beth has no concept of what that would entail. Blessedly, Quinn is fast approaching the table. “We can talk about it with Mommy sometime, if you want.”

“Okay.”

Beth doesn’t bring it up when Quinn sits, simply draws abstract shapes on the table with the moisture in her hands.

Then, like that, her mood changes again. “I’m gonna go back and skate with Hannah now.”

“Okay, let me fix your leggings, babe.”

Quinn plants a kiss on her daughter before ushering her off. Moments later, her content look disappears into a look of mild horror. “Oh God, she just fell pretty hard.”

They squeeze an intact Beth into the car, worn-out and sticky.

Quinn buckles her in while Rachel swipes at the congealed cotton candy around her chin.

“Mommy?” Beth asks tiredly. She’s actively fighting sleep.

“Yes, baby?”

“Is Rachel coming home?”

“I don’t know, do you want her to?”

“I don’t know.” Before either adult has a chance to be concerned about the statement, her eyes drift shut.

“My mom’s coming into town,” Quinn mentions.

“Oh? That’s exciting.”

“If you want to go out while she’s here.”

“I’d...love that.”

Their first date isn’t nearly as swanky as their accidental encounter at Izzat. They go to a ramen joint with vegan options. Rachel isn’t really sure how you can even make vegan ramen--a lot of miso, she supposes.

Quinn wears another--you guessed it--button-up because she senses Rachel’s flusteredness when she encounters them. She pulls Rachel’s chair out for her. She laughs when Rachel’s feet dangle, only partially contacting the ground.

Rachel normally hates food-based dates. The whole dilemma around trying to eat neatly. The matter of who pays. But Quinn runs through the motions like someone who hasn’t been holding off on dates for seven years. She sweeps Rachel off her feet quite literally.

At a point in their discussion about Beth’s party, Rachel wants to come out with it. “I messed up, she asked me about girls holding hands and I choked up.”

“That conversation’s a bit above your pay grade,” Quinn quips.

“I wasn’t sure what you were comfortable with.”

“I trust you, Rachel. You’re always very intuitive with her.”

“I hadn’t even taken you on a date yet--I didn’t want to confuse her on the amount of affection I have for you. Or the degree to which I’ll be around,” Rachel confesses.

“Right,” Quinn says, expression hardening into something a bit more stoic. As if she senses incoming rejection.

“Because ideally, the answer would be a lot,” Rachel says, biting her lip.

“Oh.”

“Not to be presumptuous.”

“No,” Quinn manages, “I like that.”

“So I figured it might be better if you talked to her.”

Quinn shifts in her seat. “Is this crazy for you? I mean, it’s been just over two weeks that we’ve known each other. I don’t want to make you dive into anything, or. Or label anything that you don’t want to. I know it makes it more complicated that Beth and I come in a package deal.”

“I’m not normally a believer in fate or one cosmic purpose, but I feel like Beth and I sort of chose each other for a reason. We have a special connection, and I’m not willing to give that up.”

She takes a breath and goes on, as Quinn fiddles with the napkin on her lap. “I haven’t committed myself to dating someone in a very long time, Quinn. But I’ve seen enough of you that I want it to be you. If it doesn’t work out for...for compatibility reasons, then we’ll find a way to cope and to help Beth cope. But for now, let’s just be transparent and see what happens.”

Quinn nods soberly.

They commute back to Rachel’s apartment, and by the time they cross the threshold, Rachel is sure that she doesn’t want to have sex with Quinn tonight. Or rather, she  _ does _ with every fiber of her but is sure that they should wait.

Quinn repeats her initial motion to kiss Rachel, that night they rushed to the emergency room. She clasps Rachel’s jaw in two certain hands.

Rachel relishes the first touch of their lips, Quinn’s enclosing around Rachel’s bottom lip. Nibbling, sucking, occasional biting. It’s perhaps the most pleasurable kiss of her life. Soft, a little wet, Quinn’s lips plump and inviting.

They bump like two bumbling bees into the sofa, half-collapse over the back of it. Quinn rocks into her pelvis before she squeals and halts Quinn with a hand to her collarbone.  _ Not yet _ , she says quietly, in the glow of the light cast in from her hallway.

Rachel’s phone buzzes incessantly, and at first glance at the caller ID, she picks up. Quinn has never rung her unplanned before.

Quinn sighs after a clipped greeting. “Beth is acting strangely.”

“What’s going on?”

“She’s throwing food at school, drawing on other kids’ homework. She did this once when she first started preschool, and I started taking her to a therapist. It’s been a while since she’s been to that counselor.”

“Do you think it’s…?” Rachel has a habit of leaving unpleasant questions unfinished.

“I don’t know--I guess we’ll find out. I’ll keep you updated.”

There’s a lull. “Can I...do anything?”

“You could--God, this is a lot,” Quinn mutters.

“Ask me anyway.”

“It worked best when I went to the counselor with her. Let her play in the office with the toys, and she’d run up to me once in a while and play something interpretive. If you wanted to come…”

“Okay. When is the appointment?”

Beth still smiles toothily at Rachel upon her arrival. She takes the brunette by the hand and leads her through the glass doors of the therapist’s office, Quinn following suit.

“Hi, Beth,” says Anne, the counselor. “I remember when you were last here, about two years ago. You can pick anything to play with for the next hour, and you can invite your mom or Rachel to play with you. While you pick something to do, I’m going to talk to them by my desk, okay?”

Beth goes off in hunt of an activity.

“How are you holding up?” Anne asks Quinn with a concerned smile.

“I feel...guilty,” Quinn confesses. “To be honest, this is why I’ve suppressed my wants the last several years. I don’t want to affect her in negative ways.”

“You cannot put your human needs on hold for the comfort of your child. Don’t get me wrong--it’s appropriate to distance yourself from people who are abusive or aloof towards your child. But in this circumstance, that’s not really the case, is it?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” Quinn laughs. “Beth loves Rachel.”

Beth approaches with a plastic microphone. She sidles up to Rachel. “Do you want to play theater?” Beth whispers.

Rachel allows herself to be towed to the sofa at the opposite end of the room, a makeshift stage. Beth removes her shoes and clambers up onto it. 

“What are you going to sing?” Rachel asks, vaguely aware that the other two women are observing them.

“Giselle’s song.”

Beth sings in her head voice to keep her volume down, also distantly aware that she is being watched. She stops mid-intro, looking around as if searching the audience. 

“I can’t sing,” she says. “Mommy’s not here.”

Quinn moves to come over.

“No,” Beth shakes her head, “Pretend.”

“What would you do if your mom didn’t come to your performance, Beth?” Anne asks.

Beth bites her lip. “I don’t know.” She steps off the couch.

Quickly redirecting, Beth chooses two wooden sabers from a repurposed umbrella stand in the corner. “Fight me,” she says meekly, incongruous with what she’s asking Rachel to do.

Rachel mock-spars with her, uncertain of her own movements. The motions are choreographed--Beth gives her time to block and parry in uncomplicated, predictable maneuvers. Rachel remains seated for most of it.

Beth looks frustrated. “Never mind.” She deposits the swords back in their resting place.

She finds clay in the cubby of art supplies. No longer interested in Rachel, she takes it to the miniature desk in the center of the room and begins to knead and pummel it.

“What’s been obvious throughout my work with her,” Anne says slowly, as Rachel rejoins them, “is that Beth has abandonment fears.”

“I’ve never left her anywhere,” Quinn says, tears forming. “Except with my mom or my roommate for a night at most.”

“I know,” Anne soothes. “I would guess they’re more from her father. Her fears, perceived or real, come out when she plays. And when she acts out at school.”

“Is that what she’s telling us in this office?” Rachel pipes up, then regrets speaking.

“Yes--thankfully, she doesn’t seem to consciously associate abandonment with Rachel. Shown by how she chooses Rachel as her playmate.”

Beth is rolling out a snake with the Play-doh.

“It all has to do with you, Quinn. She specifically is afraid to be left by you, and angered by your imagined absence. She expresses her anger in violent games after she plays out her abandonment fear. Knowing that she can’t hit or destroy, because she’s a well-mannered child, she turns to the clay instead.”

“What can I do to help her? What am I expressing with Rachel that she’s so afraid of?”

“I’m not sure. I would suggest we all talk. Beth?”

Beth looks up, and dutifully shuffles over. She clambers up into Rachel’s lap.

“Beth,” Anne begins, “do you sometimes worry that your mom won’t come home after work, or won’t pick you up from school?”

Beth deposits the clay ball on Anne’s desk and continues to shape it. “Yes.”

“Has your mom ever forgotten you?”

Beth shakes her head, feigning concentration, but tears begin to form in her eyes.

“I love you more than anything, Beth,” Quinn interjects. “You are my number one priority--that means the top of my to-do list.”

“I know,” Beth says quietly.

Anne leans forward in her chair. “Does having Rachel over at your house make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel when Rachel holds your mom’s hand?”

Beth hesitates.

“I know it’s hard to think about what you’re feeling,” Anne says sympathetically. “Because you’ve never seen your mom do that before. Usually, your mom only holds your hand. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Rachel holds your hand, too, doesn’t she? And your mom still holds your hand when you cross the street?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you ever get a little bit jealous or sad when they hold hands without you?”

“Yeah,” Beth says, quieter.

“How would you feel if they both held your hand at the same time? Do you want to try it?”

Beth nods. Rachel and Quinn each take one of her little hands, both unconsciously circling her knuckles with a thumb.

“How is that, Beth? Do you like it?”

“I like it.”

“That’s very good to hear. Is it okay if your mom and Rachel sometimes do things without you, grown-up things like drive and go to restaurants, as long as they do this with you a lot?”

Beth considers that. “Yeah.”

“What else do you want them to do with you?”

“Take me to see Rachel’s play. Go to the park.”

“Do those sound reasonable to you two, Quinn and Rachel?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel says at the same time Quinn says, “Definitely.”

“Then I think we’ve come to a resolution,” Anne beams. “I’d like to see her next week, too, if that’s all right. A follow-up play session, just me and her.”

They go out for ice cream directly afterward. Beth pores over the flavor possibilities, thumbs smudging the plexiglass display.

“Back up, baby,” Quinn reminds her, “Give other people a chance to look.”

Beth seems reserved, but wholly relieved. Rachel can see it in her movements.

“Which one do you want?” Beth asks Rachel.

“I can only have the lemon one.”

“Why?”

“I don’t eat things that have milk in them.”

“Oh.”

“Which one do  _ you _ want?”

“I don’t know yet. A pink one.”

Then, something strange happens. Beth gives them a peculiar look, standing side-by-side. Wordlessly, she connects their dangling hands, then turns back to the display without comment.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how to end this, it sorta started flowing naturally. Thank you to those of you who told me you enjoyed it--it was kinda fluffy nonsense to begin with, and because of you I carried it through.

“Your daughter wants you.”

Rachel shifts in the bed, outstretching her left arm and feeling it shudder as it relishes the morning light.

“Why’s she only  _ my _ daughter this early in the morning?” Rachel groans.

“Mom!”

“I’m getting up, bunny.”

“I don’t know which dress to wear!”

“I thought we decided last night.”

“It looked lumpy when I put it on this morning.”

“Sweetheart, you’re nine. Nothing should look perfectly skin-tight on you.”

“All the other girls probably do pageants and are used to wearing the tight things.”

“I think you’re overestimating your competition.”

Rachel rubs at her eyes as she pads into the bathroom, Beth on her heels. Beth’s mounting anxiety shows in the crease of her eyebrows. Rachel reaches out with one thumb, the one that’s not holding her toothbrush, and smooths it. It lasts for a heartbeat before knitting again.

“I want this to be fun for you, baby. Not upset you.”

“It is fun,” Beth insists. “I just...care a lot.”

“I know. We’ll get you ready and arrive early, okay? We have plenty of time and you’ve had more than enough practice. If you don’t get it, there are dozens more auditions.”

“I really want  _ this  _ one.”

Rachel spits into the basin and rinses her brush, then turns to look her daughter in the eye. She even goes so far as to crouch, hand on either of Beth’s shoulders.

“I know you’re not going to understand this right now, and that’s okay,” Rachel says patiently. “But the biggest thing I learned from auditions is that my worth isn’t defined by whether or not someone thinks I’m good enough. My passion and my personhood are things that no one can take away from me, even if they stop approving of me. And when I approve of myself? That’s when I’ll land a role.”

Beth scrubs at her eye, but tears spill over anyway. “Okay.”

“Okay. Let’s go make some breakfast.”

Beth emerges smiling from the auditorium doors. “Mom? You have to come in and talk to them.”

Rachel’s heart flutters.

Judy Fabray is icing a cake the following Saturday, meticulous in her spatula strokes.

“Mom, it looks perfect,” Quinn nudges her. “You don’t have to keep smoothing it.”

“I’m just so proud,” Judy nearly sobs.

Rachel sidles up beside her and puts an arm around her shoulder--or rather, her side because that’s as high as Rachel can reach. “We’re glad you’re here to celebrate.”

“You know damn well I’ll be at every show, too,” Judy insists, saying nothing of the embrace.

To be perfectly honest, Rachel has been training Judy the past two years to respond well to her presence. It’s Pavlovian conditioning--every time Rachel touches, acknowledges, or compliments Judy, she makes certain that Beth shows her smiling face in the next three, two, one…

“Gramma!” Beth squeals, still donning her pajamas and with sleep still dusting her eyes.

It’s not that Judy hated Rachel, or was outright homophobic towards the pair. It was microaggressions. Little assumptions. Unwillingness to believe that they’d operate like any couple-- _ so, are you going to sleep in the same bedroom when you move in together?  _ Acceptance, accompanied by a general lack of understanding.

Judy turns to Rachel. “I didn’t make this one vegan, but there are a few cupcakes in the fridge for you. From the bakery around the corner that you like so much.”

“Thank you, Judy,” Rachel coos. Behind Judy’s back, she snaps in Beth’s direction.

Beth registers the motion. “I love you, Gramma!” she pipes up instantly.

_ Gramma _ dissolves into tears once more and Rachel awards Beth a thumbs-up and a wink.

The next guests to arrive are Hiram and Leroy Berry. There’s no shortage of vegan dessert this time around.

“Papa and Sabba,” Beth gasps, jumping into Hiram’s arms.

Rachel remembers vividly the day she told her fathers about Beth:

_ “Rachel,” Leroy sighs, “you’re not involved with a married woman, are you?” _

_ “No, Daddy, what--?” _

_ “Just making sure.” _

_ “Do you love her? What’s her name? How old is she?” Leroy demands in quick succession. _

_ “I do love her. Her name is Beth, and she’s seven.” _

_ “I meant the mother, sweetheart.” _

_ “Oh. Quinn. I love her, too, and she’s twenty-three.” _

And the day they met Beth:

_ “Hi,” Beth says, toeing the ground shyly like a cartoon character. “Do you want to come see my agate collection? Rachel helped me make it in a jar.” _

_ Cue two older, gay men melting in unison. _

Rachel watches the scene before her, Hiram rising with a nine-year-old in his arms. He has a bad back, but luckily Beth is still small for her age.

A hand makes a comforting arc on her back, and Rachel finds Quinn nestling against her shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations to Beth,” Rachel agrees with her wife.

“Well, congratulations to you, too, coach.”

“It’s all her. I never want to be too hard on her or pressure her into anything she’s not--”

“Rachel. Since day one, you’ve been nothing but supportive. Never strict or...or projecting your own ambitions onto her. It’s lovely to watch.”

“Do you want to say anything before we cut into the cake, Beth?” Judy asks delicately.

“Make a speech! Make a speech!” Kurt and Blaine begin to holler. Beth rolls her eyes at them, a habit she picked up from Kurt himself.

“Um,” Beth murmurs. “I just want to say thank you to Mommy for letting me do choir when I was six. And the biggest, biggest thank you to my mom for giving me lessons and taking me everywhere that I need to go for practice and auditions.”

She pauses, Rachel thinks for dramatic effect.

Beth goes on, and her next part is practiced. “I’ve been calling Rachel Mom for the last year, because I was scared that if I kept calling her just Rachel, it meant that she would be out of my life someday. I talked to Mommy about it, who said that Rachel was in our lives to stay, no matter the circum--circumstances.

“Rachel said that it was okay if I called her Mom, because since they got married last year, Rachel takes care of me every day in the same way that my mommy does. And even before that, she--she took care of me. But, there’s more. Mommy says we don’t need this to be happy, and there’s lots of families who can’t afford to do it, but while we can do it, we want to make it official.”

Quinn steps forward and produces a document, offering it to Rachel.

Rachel doesn’t need to read it to know what it is, but she skims over it, anyway. “Oh, my God.” She looks up at Beth. “Oh, my God.”

Beth bites her lip. “Mom?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m just happy. I would love to adopt you, Beth.”

Beth cries in earnest now, coming over to hug her moms. Several in the room cover their mouths and eyes to hide the ugly grimace of tearful expressions.

Two years ago, Rachel couldn’t have predicted having a child at her age. Now, Rachel can’t imagine a more perfect scenario.

Rocking her wife and daughter in her arms, she feels a simultaneous longing and fulfillment that her career alone could never sustain.

Rachel begins humming the titular song from the Broadway show that Beth first attended upon meeting her. Beth joins in, singing the words aloud.

“Never a calling that I could foresee, darling baby girl, you are half of me!”


End file.
